


It's not right (it's not wrong)

by Wrathofscribbles



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 14:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30039936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: Hobby mishaps suck, but a friend's support can certainly help.
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	It's not right (it's not wrong)

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory reminder that Final Fantasy XV and all recognisable content are property of Square Enix. I'm just playing in the sandpit they created.
> 
> A daft little piece inspired by happenings in real life back when I was learning a hobby and a dear friend (charming bastard that he is) had the patience of mountains in dealing with my near meltdown lol

It was a passing suggestion made in the dead of night with the rest of the city settling into a sedate pace and the apartment cloaked in darkness. One made as a distraction from pain and the spark of restless magic through blood.

He didn't think Noctis would take it _seriously_ and yet here they are. Or rather there _Ignis_ is, looking for all the world like he's three seconds from hurling a spear at Prompto's head, left eye twitching in _that way_ promising imminent doom. And there Nocits is, defying the laws of nature and physics with how he's got his legs tucked up under him on a goddamn _stool_ , perfectly balanced, not a wobble in sight. And also wound up tight as a spring, if the tneison in his shoulders is anything to go by. Around him, caught in the bend of his elbows and strewn over his knees and tangled around his feet and carelessly thrown across the countertop to spill into the kitchen and puddle on the tiles? Yarn. Lots and lots of yarn. A neon coloured massacre if Prompto's ever seen one and the image overall is so _ridiculous_ it bolts his feet to the floor the second he lays eyes on it, stops him in his tracks so fast he might as well have been smacked in the face by Gladio's greatsword. And then, because self-preservation has never been his strong suit, he laughs, clapping hands over his mouth too late to contain it. Noctis' shoulders hunch up around his shoulders and the candles scattered throughout the living area burst into flame in response to his ire, his eyes flashing bright red.

Ignis mutters a quiet _good luck_ and claps a hand on his shoulder as he passes by, fetches his jacket, and vacates the apartment without a backward glance. Leaving Prompto to his (self-inflicted) fate.

"Uh..."

"It's not _right._ I can't _get it right._ It doesn't _look right."_

"What doesn't?"

"This!" Noctis cries, brandishing the pair of needles and waving them around and Prompto... can't actually _see_ the problem. He rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and dares approach the chaos and the dragon perched in the middle of it with steam all but coming out his ears.

"Quit waving them around like pompoms and let me look, Noct," he says, reaching out to catch him by the wrist, and Noctis falls still with a huff, holding out the needles and glaring at them as he might a plate with hidden vegetables. There... isn't an issue. He casts an inexpert eye over the cast on stitches and finds absolutely nothing wrong with them. Not a damn thing. Why, then, the disaster zone? "What -"

"It's _twisted_. See? All crooked around the needle and when I watch the video you linked me to they're perfectly _straight_ and the bumps form like. A backbone? _What the hell am I doing wrong?"_

Through some miracle, or inner strength, or interference from the Astrals themselves, Prompto doesn't lose his shit laughing again. It's a close thing, hysterics fizzing in the back of his throat and begging to spill out in a cackle, but he somehow manages to keep a lid on it and plucks the working needle from Noct's grip. He bites his tongue to maintain his silence as he moves thumb and index finger over each stitch, twisting them around until they perfectly align with a ridge on one side. Noctis watches like a hawk, leaning so far forward he'd have toppled from his perch if not for the blue mist curling around him, crystalline shards darting up and down his limbs. Warp magic, but without actually leaving his current space (and boy if Prompto could have _that_ whenever his alarm shocks him out a deep sleep, he might not wind up on the floor in a fright). Lucky bastard.

"... That's it?"

"That's it."

_"Are you kidding me?_ I've redone this fucking part six times already! I've watched the entire video maybe a dozen times! I've spent all goddamn morning trying to figure out what I'm doing wrong and you're telling me all I had to do was _rotate the fucking stitches?"_

"Yes?" Should he run? He feels like he should run. A magic-infused pressure cooker for a boyfriend didn't make for safety in close proximity. But Noctis snorts, keels over sideways and doesn't catch himself with a warp in time, and the storm gathering around them disperses in mutual laughter as Prompto sinks down beside him and pings him square on the skull with the non-pointy end of the needle.

"I'm such an idiot."

"Listen, you're less of an idiot than me. You haven't snapped your needles by sitting on them, yet."

"You didn't!"

"Yup. Cactuars ain't got nothing on these things."

* * *

He gifts Noctis a pair of handmade socks for his birthday. He gets an absolutely _massive_ log cabin blanket for his own, knit in a selection of fall-theme colours.

It's the very same blanket he keeps stashed in the Armiger for safe keeping. It's the same blanket he drapes over Noctis in the backseat whenever they flee a haven's sanctuary in the wee hours of the morning with NIflheim breathing down their necks. It's the same blanket they both huddle in at campsites, needles clicking away in accompaniment to the crackle of flames, working yarn partly in their world and partly elsewhere, wherever the Armiger actually leads. It's the same blanket he buries his face in sometimes, when he's beaten down and ready to give up in a decade of darkness and despair.


End file.
